


Feel that Fire

by Morwen_Maranwe



Series: I'm a Flame and You're my Fire [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Age Play, Blow Jobs, Caregiving, Comeplay, Daddy Kink, Deep Throating, Dirty Talk, Dom John, Established Relationship, M/M, Sherlock has trouble following the rules, Slight Food Kink, Sub Sherlock, accidental self-inflicted harm (not intentional), copious amounts of bodily fluids, gagging, gratuitous use of pet names, implied hints of Dom/sub undertones and lifestyle, older John/younger Sherlock, older/younger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7453813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morwen_Maranwe/pseuds/Morwen_Maranwe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet night in for John and Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel that Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maddieunhae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddieunhae/gifts).



> For Maddie, to make her day better <3
> 
> This story takes place in the AU of my multi-chapter story The Burning Life, though you don’t need to read that for this to make sense. The only things you need to know are:
> 
> 1\. This story takes place after The Burning Life has concluded, so (SPOILER ALERT!) John and Sherlock are living together in London at Baker Street. If you are in the midst of reading TBL or plan on reading it in the future, be warned that there may be spoilers in this story for it  
> 2\. John is in his late-30’s and Sherlock is in his late teens, attending uni  
> 3\. John and Sherlock have been in an established relationship for some time now 
> 
> Thanks to jujuBeans for the beta and Brit-pick!

John is tired and freezing cold as he walks up to the Tesco a few blocks from Baker Street on his way home from the surgery.  He has had to work every day for the past week and he had to cover the last half of Sarah’s shift today, taking on her patients as well as his own and making it indecently late in the evening by the time he left the office—the height of rush hour.  He wraps his light jacket around himself tighter, cursing the fact that he didn’t check the weather forecast for this late autumn day.  He pulls his mobile out of his jacket pocket and checks it one more time to be sure he read what Sherlock wants him to pick up correctly, knowing that if he gets the wrong thing a strop is most likely in store for him when he gets to the flat.

He sighs.  The chocolate bar that Sherlock wants is all the way at the back of the shop, the queues are atrocious, the temperature outside is dropping with every passing minute as the sun goes down, and John can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on.

He’ll get what Sherlock has asked for, though.

John doesn’t want to disappoint his little boy, after all.

*

When he finally makes it home, he finds himself with an armful of teenage genius, hugging him and simultaneously trying to pry the shopping from his hand.

“Well, hello to you, too, sweetheart,” John chuckles as he tries to catch his breath around a mouthful of curls.

“Did you get it?” Sherlock asks impatiently.

“Yes,” John says, quickly moving the bag out of Sherlock’s reach and behind his back before Sherlock can make a grab for it.  “But you’ll only have it once you’ve eaten dinner.”

“ _John_!” Sherlock whines, and the man gives him a hard stare.  “Daddy,” the younger male amends, softening his voice and blushing.  John can feel a warmth stirring low in his belly at Sherlock calling him that name in that tone.  It never fails to do something to John, no matter how tired the doctor might be.

But, still, he doesn’t let the brunet know that.

“That’s the rule, Sherlock.  You know that,” John tells him sternly, not budging, the bag still tucked away safely behind his back.  “We agreed to play tonight, so you have to follow the rules.” 

“The rules” that John speaks of are something rather new that they are still getting used to, something that John thought might help Sherlock better communicate his needs while simultaneously giving John the chance to take care of the teen without Sherlock’s constant brush-offs.  There had been a handful of times when John had come home to a disaster of a flat because Sherlock had done experiments while in “little mode”, or they had near-catastrophic scenes because Sherlock wouldn’t communicate to John exactly what he needed.  After the last time this happened, John had felt that a list of rules for the child to follow was rather imperative for both their sakes.

During times like this, when he gets to tell his obstinate lover “no” and he doesn’t have to sit there and argue with Sherlock about why, he is extremely pleased with the idea.

Because even now, his arousal isn’t dampened by chastising Sherlock’s behaviour.  If anything, his words only encourage the burgeoning erection in his trousers, which he tries to ignore for the moment as he glares at the bratty youngster.  It is hard to do; it feels like it has been forever since they have last played together this way, and it has even been some time since they last were able to be together normally, outside of a scene.  John has been too busy this past week to even give the thought of having a solitary wank little more than just a longing sigh, before he had to rouse himself and rush off to go do something else.  He is feeling decidedly high-strung at the moment but thinks that he might enjoy a bit of delayed gratification tonight, after such a long time without.

Sherlock huffs out a petulant breath at John’s reprimand, pouting.  “Fine,” he sighs, and John decides to let the attitude go unpunished simply because he is tired and he has to start dinner.

“Go finish up what you were doing while I start to cook,” he gently orders his young lover.

Sherlock goes back to the sitting room and plops down drearily on the sofa, where John has noticed a small, dying fire is crackling warmly away in the fireplace.  The lanky brunet bends over the coffee table where he has strewn dozens of papers, all with different formulas and equations on them.  Schoolwork, it all looks like from where John is standing in the kitchen, and so the man goes about silently making them dinner and letting his arousal drop down to a steady, low simmer as Sherlock completes his assignments in the other room.  While John cooks, the heat from the fire in the sitting room and from the cooktop in the kitchen merge together to keep 221b pleasantly warm for such a chilly evening.

When John has dinner ready and served, he sets one fork and two plates on the kitchen table—a ceramic plate for him and a smaller plastic one for Sherlock that has a picture of a puppy on it.  John smiles every time he uses it.  Sherlock had picked it out himself.  He never says anything to anyone—John included—but John knows that Sherlock has a secret love for dogs that he refuses to express.

“Dinner’s ready,” he calls as he pulls out Sherlock’s chair on one side of the table and then sits in the seat directly next to it, scooting close.  He hears Sherlock scramble up from the sofa and make his way to the table, slipping into his seat silently and waiting patiently as John goes about the ritual of preparing for the two of them to eat a meal together while they scene.

It has taken them a few tries to become comfortable and familiar with a routine that works for them, but things definitely took a turn for the better once they moved into Baker Street together and had more time to devote to each other and this particular aspect of their relationship.  Now, it seems almost like second nature.

John manoeuvers them slightly so that there is as little space between them as possible and fusses with their plates, making sure Sherlock’s is placed directly underneath him, close enough to not make a mess.  Then he picks up the single fork that he put down and sinks it into the stir-fry that he cooked.  He carefully raises it up in between them and blows on the food softly to let it cool for a moment before he moves the forkful closer to Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock opens his mouth without hesitation and eats.

John beams at him.

It is the only way that he has found that he can get Sherlock to eat a decent sized meal.  If they go too long without playing, John notices that Sherlock mostly just lives off crisps, biscuits, and crumbs of the coffee cakes and jam rolls that Mrs. Hudson drops off in their flat sometimes.  And tea.  Which John has to make.  If John doesn’t make Sherlock tea, the kid would probably die of dehydration.

But like this—with John feeding Sherlock a bite of dinner from his puppy-themed plate first and then taking a bite of food from his own for himself—he can get Sherlock to eat a full meal without complaint.  And if Sherlock is feeling especially playful, John can even get him to drink something other than tea or coffee.  If the man fills up the little kiddie cup (the one with a cartoon train painted on it which John bought for him) with juice, water, or even milk, John notices that Sherlock is liable to drink a surprisingly normal and healthy amount of liquids when they scene.

John tries to get away with this at least three times a week, but Sherlock is quick to catch on to him and sometimes puts a stop to their games during the week, even going so far as to do it during the middle of a session if he feels that John is just being too coddling and he can’t take it any longer.

Tonight, though, they go on like this for quite a while and John realises that Sherlock might be feeling a bit neglected as of late, though he won’t say anything to the older man.  John feeds Sherlock—who stays quiet and complacent the entire time—and then takes a bite of food for himself, sharing a fork and cup of water with their meal.  They do this until both their plates are empty, John has a half-hard cock that he is trying to ignore, and the older man is completely chuffed at how much Sherlock has eaten.

“Can I have it now, Daddy?” Sherlock asks when he swallows his last bite, a hint of impatience in his voice.  John’s prick gives a confused twitch in his trousers.  He knows, though, what Sherlock is really asking for and he wills his arousal down.

John chuckles at his eager young lover.  “Yes, you rotten little thing,” he gives in, reaching out for the chocolate bar that he has kept close by because he knew Sherlock would be asking for it as soon as they were finished with dinner.  “Here you go, my little honeybee—have to have your sweets, don’t you?”  John hands the treat to him and lets Sherlock snatch it out of his grip in a hurry.

“Thank you!” Sherlock says with a grin of delight as he tears into the sweet wrapper while John looks on, laughing.

He watches as Sherlock munches happily on his chocolate, pulling his knees up to his chest on the rickety wooden kitchen chair and folding in on himself, looking immeasurably small in John’s eyes.  Sherlock releases a content little sigh as he nears the end of his sweet and proceeds to lick melted chocolate from his fingers like a child when John knows, in reality, Sherlock is anything but a child. John doesn’t care, though.  At the sight of him, a surge of affection rushes through John so intense that it steals the man’s breath for a moment. 

John sits across the table from Sherlock and stares at the person before him, the teenage genius who hadn’t had any friends before he met John, whose IQ is higher than anyone John has ever known, who is amazing and brilliant and beautiful, and who hadn’t had anyone to love him before John came into his life.  John finds it hard to reconcile the fact that this is the same person who sits at John’s feet with his head resting on John’s knee so that John will read him a story, who curls up like a cat between John’s legs on the couch so that John will pet him and call him baby, who lets John fuck him while calling John “Daddy”.  And who currently has his thumb in his mouth, sucking chocolate off of it like a toddler.

After Sherlock has practically inhaled his sweet, John reaches out a hand to ruffle his hair with a lopsided grin.  He moves to clear the table and stand up, having to adjust himself subtly.  Neither man makes mention of it, though.  It’s all part of the game, after all—the waiting, the slow burn of it.  It has been a long time since they have been able to indulge in each other this way, and John wants the full experience tonight, tired from a long day of work or not.  “Finished your schoolwork, love?” he asks Sherlock, ignoring the growing stiffness of his cock instead of drawing their attention to it.

At Sherlock’s nod (his mouth is still rather full of chocolate), he continues, “You can do an experiment, then, while you wait for me to finish the washing up, and then we’ll give you a bath and put you to bed.”

John knows that Sherlock doesn’t want to be put to bed but they are playing and they had agreed in the rules that the teen would at least try to get some sleep whenever they scene.  John had been very meticulous when drawing out the rules to their game.  Every guideline he made had Sherlock’s best interests at heart.  If this was the only way he could take care of Sherlock, then he was going to take full advantage of it.

Sherlock pouts and grumbles under his breath but when John shoots him a warning glare all he says is a demure, “Okay, Daddy.”

Deep down John knows that Sherlock has only given in so easily because of what the teen deduces is likely to come before he is tucked in for the night (the naughty little goblin).  But John just hides his grin and keeps his thoughts to himself as he hears Sherlock scamper off into their fire-warmed sitting room while he proceeds to clean up.  Everything is quiet and calm inside of Baker Street and John revels in it for a long moment, letting himself unwind from a long, hard week of work before the serenity suddenly comes to a screeching halt.

From across the room there is the abrupt sound of a metal crash and a sharp gasp.  John looks up quickly to see Sherlock crouched on the floor in the middle of the sitting room, arm held on his thighs with his palm facing upwards, blood dripping steadily down his hands and staining his lap.

“Sherlock!”

John is across the room before he even realises it, grabbing up a tea towel to stop the bleeding, which he presses to the gash in Sherlock’s hand.  He can’t tell how bad the cut is, not with all of the blood covering it, but he doesn’t need to see it to know that it is deep enough to require immediate attention, though he doesn’t think a trip to A&E is in order.  He can already tell that the towel is stemming most of the blood flow and he is pretty sure that he has everything he needs to take care of the cut himself here in the flat already. 

John is just about to ask Sherlock what happened, when he sees it—a medical grade scalpel lying on the floor next to Sherlock’s thigh, the blade covered in thick, dark blood.

He frowns, turning the towel over in Sherlock’s palm gently to press a dry side down across the wound.  “What have I told you about using those scalpels while we play?  What have I said?” John asks, the questions coming out a little harsher than he means for them to.  He doesn’t like Sherlock to use some of his more dangerous equipment and do the more in-depth experiments while he is regressed, even if he only regresses slightly compared to what John’s read other “littles” do.  John doesn’t like taking the chance.  That’s why it is part of the rules.  And Sherlock did it anyway.

Crouching there on the floor next to him Sherlock gives a little whimper—the only sound John has heard him make—and leans into John’s side.  “I’m sorry, Daddy.  Are you mad at me?”

And although John knows the cut must hurt like hell, Sherlock looks as though it hurts him even more to have John be disappointed with him.

John sighs, angry at himself.  He is frustrated and tired and wants a beer, a bath, and his bed in the worst way, but he knows that’s no reason to yell at Sherlock.  “No, baby.  I’m not mad,” he assures the small-looking youth, gentling his tone and running his thumb along Sherlock’s forearm as he holds the blood-sodden tea towel to the red-stained, large hand gripped in his own.  “I just got frightened, that’s all.  I saw you hurt and I didn’t know what to do for a second and it scared me.  I’m sorry I yelled at you, sweetheart.  You’re hurt and you don’t deserve that,” he apologises, dropping his head to press a kiss to the crown of Sherlock’s curly hair, breathing in the scent of his shampoo, taking a moment to calm himself and gather his thoughts.  “Come on; let’s go take care of this.  Let me make it better for you.”

He gets to his feet and helps pull Sherlock up with him, gathering his little cricket in his arms and wishing that Sherlock were shorter so that he could lift him up and carry him.  Then he shuffles them into the bathroom, sitting Sherlock down on the lid of the closed toilet while he pulls his well-stocked first aid kit out and sets it on the sink, dropping to the edge of the tub in front of the brunet so that he can better see Sherlock’s hand as it rests in his lap.

They sit there in a heavy silence for a long moment as John methodically goes about cleaning up Sherlock.  He glances up every few seconds to be sure that he isn’t increasing Sherlock’s pain, but sees only Sherlock’s trembling lips and wide, wet eyes staring back down at him silently, as if waiting for him to say something.

John sighs, using an alcohol pad to wipe away blood from Sherlock’s palm, allowing him to finally see the cut.  It is deep, but not as bad as he feared.  “Sherlock, I’ve told you before not to play with the scalpels when we scene, haven’t I?” he asks into the silence as he continues to go about cleaning the cut.

“Yes.”  Sherlock’s voice is tiny and soft in the silence of the bathroom.

“We have a rule about it, don’t we?”

“Yes.”

“So you know you’re not supposed to do it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you also know that you’re going to have to get punished, don’t you?”

Sherlock sniffles and John knows it doesn’t have anything to do with the cut on his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers.  He is avoiding John’s gaze but the man can see that Sherlock’s eyes are wide and worried as Sherlock looks away from him.

At times like this, when they are playing—and specifically when Sherlock is being particularly difficult— it is obvious that John is the more dominant person in their relationship.  Despite this, though, he has never once wanted Sherlock to be afraid of him or anything that John might do to him, especially while they scene.  That has always been something that John has been very careful to avoid.

“I know you’re sorry, baby,” John tells him tenderly while he continues to swipe the alcohol pad across the gash on Sherlock’s hand, caressing the large palm with his own shorter, blunter fingers.  “But the rules are there for a reason.  I’m just trying to take care of you and make sure you’re safe.  The rules will only work if you follow them and you mind me, though.  Are you going to mind me?” he asks, his tone growing slightly harder in the silence of the bathroom, so that Sherlock will know how serious he is about this.

The child manages a watery look at John before he sniffles again and nods his head.

They’ve come to find that the spankings John administers aren’t really punishment; Sherlock enjoys them.  Hell, who is he kidding— _John_ enjoys them, probably more than he should.  So no, he never leaves an actual punishment at just a few swats to Sherlock’s bum anymore.

Sherlock has taken considerably well to spending time with John as his “little boy”.  He likes regressing for the short period that John allows them to play this game together and his favourite thing is sharing his pastimes and interests with his Daddy.  He likes having someone who pays attention to him and nurtures his curiosities—something he never had as a child.  So John has come to find that a very effective punishment for the child is limiting his hobby or playtime with Daddy while they scene.

Sherlock hates it, of course.  He thinks it is the worst form of torture, meant to prove that John is just as awful and heartless as everyone else he has ever met.  It breaks John’s heart to have to punish Sherlock this way, depriving him of something he so desperately needs and wants, but it is the only form of punishment that is effective on the teen and John never, _ever_ does it out of malice or spite.  Punishing Sherlock this way is also a punishment to himself, one that he takes stoically because he feels he deserves it for having let his little boy down in some way.

His own father had used the term “this hurts me more than it hurts you” often while reddening John’s own bottom when he was younger, and John has never really understood the meaning of those words until Sherlock came along.

“A time-out, Sherlock.  For half an hour.  And no more experiments with Daddy for the next two times that we play.”

A sound escapes Sherlock’s throat; something strange that is caught somewhere between a cry and a whimper.  His lips tremble and his mouth opens slightly as he if wants to say something, to argue, but he immediately bites the plump swell of his bottom lip, closing his teeth over the words, and he simply nods his head, eyes brimming with tears.  He knows that he did wrong and he knows that the punishment will only be worse if he argues.  More importantly, he knows that John is punishing him for his own good, so that he’ll learn from his mistake.  Sherlock sniffles again and turns away slightly, eyes avoiding John’s.

“You’re being such a big boy; I know it must hurt,” John tells Sherlock and he’s not just talking about the cut.  He leans forward to kiss Sherlock softly on the mouth, a gift for being such a good little kitten for him.  “My brave little man,” he sighs against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock kisses him back, opening his mouth to John and letting the man taste him, take him.  Against John’s tongue, he can taste the salt from the stir-fry he cooked for dinner and the smooth, dark sweetness of the chocolate that he had let Sherlock eat for dessert, a delicious combination.

He pulls away from Sherlock regretfully—but there is still a cut that needs tending to and what kind of doctor would he be if he let himself become distracted from a patient over a bit of snogging?  “We’ll put a plaster on it,” he states, standing up so that he can reach the medicine cabinet and opening it up.  “Which do you want?” 

He grabs up several boxes from the store that he keeps for Sherlock—the teen is prone to all sorts of injuries and maladies, and John knew that he would need to keep a well-stocked kit around the mad genius when they began living together.  The plasters are all themed, meant to make his lovebug smile and giggle as John applies them—anything to make his little honeybee feel better.  There are dinosaur printed ones, and some with tiny little spaceships and aliens on them.  There are even Army-green camouflaged ones that Sherlock picked out himself on a rare trip to the shops with John once, because they reminded him of his Daddy.  And, of course, there is the dwindling supply of pirate-themed plasters that John will have to restock soon.

Sherlock leans forward to check his options, as if the decision is the most important in the world, and then very decisively states: “Spaceships!”

John chuckles as he grabs one of the cartoon-space coloured plasters.  “Okay, baby.  Hold still so Daddy can put it on properly.”

It is in a tricky spot—cuts to the hand are always the worst to bandage and keep clean—but he finally manages to get the large plaster wrapped around the wide palm, covering as much of the cut as he can.

“There,” he announces once it’s on.  “All done.  Do you want me to kiss it and make it better?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, blushing shyly in that endearing way that he has which John can’t resist.

“Where does it hurt?  Tell Daddy so that he can kiss it all away.”

Sherlock points to the centre of his palm, over the plaster.  Obvious.  “Here.”

John lifts his lover’s hand facing upwards and tenderly places a gentle kiss over the bandage, a barely-there brush of lips.

Sherlock exhales a shaky breath.  “And here,” he whispers, pointing to his wrist with his other hand, his eyes never leaving John’s.

John can imagine that Sherlock’s whole hand is probably hurting, and some of his arm.  A deep cut like his would set the area aflame, and it breaks John’s heart that his little bumblebee is in such pain.  He’ll have to remember to get him a paracetamol.  In the meantime, he carefully brushes his lips up Sherlock’s hand and kisses his wrist, trying to soothe away the pain, his eyes staying locked with Sherlock’s as well.  His cock swells slightly in his trousers once more as his lips brush the soft skin of Sherlock’s inner arm.  It’s an involuntary reaction that can’t be helped after spending the past week without sex or release of any kind, but John still feels slightly guilty for getting aroused while his poor kitten hurts.

“And here,” Sherlock says without another moment’s pause, pointing downwards with his hand still at chest level.  John follows the line of his finger to see where he is indicating and the man’s eyes land on Sherlock’s cock, half-erect in his trousers, ready for attention.

“Sherlock, you didn’t cut yourself there,” John chides with a small frown, though his own arousal spikes at seeing Sherlock’s mutual interest.

Sherlock squirms in John’s grasp, the man’s hands still clamped around his thin arms.  “No, but it hurts so bad.  Make it better?  Please?” Sherlock begs.  Then, because he knows how much John can’t resist the innocent act, he asks, “Do you know how to make it feel better?”

John groans in frustration, feeling his cock filling out in his jeans and knowing he is fighting a losing battle.  The kid really doesn’t play fair at all.  “Yes, Daddy knows a way to make it feel better,” John gives in, playing along, “but it’s something that only big boys do.  Are you going to be a big boy for me, Sherlock?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Sherlock tells him with an emphatic nod of his head and wide, honest eyes.  “I can be a big boy for you.”

John’s cock twitches against his flies.  Christ, Sherlock can be anything for him, he knows that.  The thought is heady.

He drops to his knees right there in the bathroom, with Sherlock sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, and moves to unbuckle Sherlock’s trousers.  Sherlock leans back against the cistern of the toilet and cants his hips to give John better access because the teen can’t use both hands to help John thanks to the large plaster over his palm, and one hand is only a hindrance.  John gets the job done on his own, though, gently pulling Sherlock’s trousers and pants down his bony hips and leaving them around the brunet’s pale thighs, exposing his slender, elegant cock to the cool air. 

Sherlock is already hard and straining when John takes him in his mouth, the head of his shaft wet with precome.  John laps at the juices, running the flat of his tongue against the slit and gathering it all up.  He swallows the bitter saltiness and lets the contractions of his throat tighten around Sherlock’s prick as he continues to slide his mouth down the stiff length.

“ _Oooh_ ,” Sherlock breathes.  “Daddy…”

“Like that, baby boy?” John asks, pulling off of his prick with an obscene slurp.  Sherlock’s fingers tighten in John’s hair and his hips chase John’s mouth, his cock glistening wetly in the light of the room.

“Again,” Sherlock demands, always such a greedy little thing when it comes to sex.  “More.”

Normally John wouldn’t allow such impudence from his little one, but he wants Sherlock’s cock in his mouth just as much as Sherlock does.  So when the slim hips thrust forward and the tip of Sherlock’s prick smears slickly against John’s lips, the man can’t help but open wide and suck him back down, taking him in to the hilt.

“ _Ah_!” Sherlock cries out at the sudden onslaught of sensation, throwing his head back.  John can feel Sherlock’s cock throb inside of his mouth and he runs his tongue against the length of it, sucking wetly as he pulls off and then pushes back down, swallowing around the tip when it hits the back of his throat.

“D—Daaa….”

Sherlock is so out of his mind that he can barely speak now but John doesn’t let up.  Sherlock is incredibly hard inside of his mouth, so full, and John knows he is close.  John can feel how tight Sherlock’s balls are as he swallows the younger male to the hilt, his nose pressing against pale pubic bone and his lips nuzzling against a practically hairless scrotum as he takes Sherlock’s cock deep inside his throat, gagging himself around the hot length of it.

“Da— _John_!” Sherlock cries out, forgetting himself as the blond man swallows once more around him.  Sherlock releases inside of his mouth almost involuntarily.  There is no warning other than a scrambling of his hands across the plaid shirt stretched along the planes of John’s back and the tightening of the muscles in his pale thighs before he goes lax suddenly, his whole body loosening in the aftermath of his orgasm.

On his knees, John swallows down his mouthful before carefully pulling off the softening prick.  He licks and nuzzles at the wet, sticky length of it as it falls back on top of Sherlock’s lower tummy, cleaning him off in a way that makes Sherlock giggle slightly, always ticklish to certain stimuli after climaxing.

“Does it feel better now, baby?” John asks him with a soft smile, looking up at the grinning face of his lover.  “Doesn’t hurt anymore?”  He ignores the burning, aching press of his own erection inside his trousers in favour of watching Sherlock smile sleepily and wiggle sluggishly beneath John’s hands as he drags them up and down the silky-smoothness of an ever-so-slightly rounded tummy, dipping under Sherlock’s shirt to feel the soft skin.

Sherlock squirms underneath him, pretending to try to get away from John’s touches and his mouth, but they both know his efforts are only half-hearted.  “No,” he says with a content little sigh.  “Feels good now.”

“Mmm,” John says thoughtfully, going back to licking a soft stripe up the warm, sweaty hollow between Sherlock’s thigh and groin.  “But now Daddy hurts there, sweetheart.  Can you help Daddy the way he helped you?”

Sherlock nods, blushing shyly, and John will never know how the brunet does that—blushes in such an innocent way on command.

Sherlock begins to slide off the toilet seat, preparing to go down to his knees, but John stops him.  “Not here,” he says with a shake of his head.  “Daddy’s too old to keep doing it in the loo like this.  Come on, let’s go do it properly.”

He gets up and helps Sherlock stand, stripping his lover of his already half-divested trousers and pants, and getting rid of the teen’s shirt as well while Sherlock helps him undress, too, leaving them both naked.  But when John moves to pull them into the bedroom, Sherlock stops him.

“Could we…can we go to your chair by the fireplace?” he asks quietly, biting his lip and looking down at the ground.

John frowns in confusion.  “What for, baby?” he asks.  John won’t tell him no, if that’s what Sherlock wants—Sherlock shouldn’t be afraid to ask for anything he wants, no matter how silly or meaningless he thinks it might be—he just wants to know why Sherlock would rather be in their sitting room than in their bed.

At this, Sherlock’s blush deepens, and he still won’t look John in the eye.  “I was hoping that maybe you could read to me, afterwards, by the fire,” he answers, clearing up John’s confusion.

“Oh,” the man says with a warm smile.  He lifts a hand to run it along the side of Sherlock’s face softly, tilting Sherlock’s head to look him in the eye as he threads his fingers through the thick, dark curls.  He remembers seeing _Treasure Island_ sitting on the end table by his chair, left there sometime a few weeks ago when he read to Sherlock before putting his sleepy little mouse to bed.  “Of course, pet.  Anything you want.  You know that.”

The smile Sherlock gives him is radiant happiness and John just has to feel it pressed against his lips.  He leans in to kiss Sherlock tenderly, a sweet press of mouths, and when they part John’s erection gives a painful throb, reminding him that it has been pitifully neglected for far too long.  The man immediately changes direction and tugs Sherlock out into their still-warm sitting room.  He takes one look at their grate and sees that the fire is dying but it will do for now, the flames small and short but the embers glowing bright red and hot.  He drops down into the chair eagerly and lets Sherlock settle on the floor between his spread thighs, not worried that the flat will be too cold for them to be naked when they are this close to the fire.

On his knees in front of John, Sherlock looks down at the man’s stiff cock for a moment as if contemplating what he wants to do with it.  John stays quiet, watching him.  He loves watching Sherlock anyway, could do it for hours, especially while they play.  Sherlock affects a different quality when they scene and John loves seeing the differences—studying them—between the Sherlock that everyone else sees and the one that only he gets to see.

After a moment Sherlock looks up at him, a tiny, devilish smirk on his lips.  He drops his head down to lick a small, wet strip up the underside of John’s prick, sending it twitching and jerking against Sherlock’s full lips, making John’s breath quake.

“You want me to make you feel good like you made me feel good, right, Daddy?” Sherlock asks him and his tiny little smirk is slowly growing into an outright wicked grin.

John can’t get words out.  He can only lick his lips and grip the arms of his chair and nod his head as he stares at Sherlock.

“Like this?” Sherlock asks, taking the head of John’s cock in his wet little mouth.

“Yes, angel,” John groans out, trying hard to keep his hips from bucking up into the incredible heat of Sherlock’s mouth.  “Perfect.”

John knows that Sherlock loves the duality of this game that they play.  Sherlock has deduced in the past that John loves the innocence, the virginal persona that he dons, but they both know that Sherlock is anything but innocent.  He feels made for John’s cock and he knows exactly what to do with it to send John into a maddening frenzy.  Sherlock knows exactly how to touch, lick, stroke, and suck.  His sinful little tongue knows everything that John loves, and the sweet and innocent act gets dropped as soon as Sherlock has John’s prick in his mouth.

John moans as Sherlock takes him in, using his uninjured hand to hold John’s cock steady, away from John’s body, and slowly sinks his mouth down on him.  Sherlock’s lips are impossibly tight around him, and he is sucking almost immediately, as soon as the tip of John’s length is in his mouth, so the suction and tightness and heat are all incredible.  Sherlock takes him all the way down as far as he can, and John can feel the tip of his cock hitting the back of that throat, making Sherlock gag and swallow around him.

God, it feels incredible.  John pants and digs his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, pulling the teen deeper onto him, causing Sherlock to cough and pull off, spit running down the plump lips and chin.  He loves how messy Sherlock gets when he sucks cock.  He loves how messy Sherlock gets whenever he takes a dick, no matter where that dick is in his body.  Sherlock is absolutely filthy.  It is beautiful.

“Fuck, take it again,” he says, pulling Sherlock’s head back down.  There is a slight resistance against his hands, he can feel it, and he drags himself out of his lust-haze enough to notice that Sherlock is still a little winded so he loosens his hold slightly but still can’t help begging, “Suck it again, please, God.”

And Sherlock does.  He takes John’s cock back down, all the way again, trying to go impossibly farther still.  His lips and the tip of his nose brush John’s pubic bone and John feels Sherlock try to relax his throat around him and swallow, choking and trying to breathe around the cock in his mouth for a few more seconds.

God, John loves this boy.  He is a marvel.

Sherlock pulls off again, coughing, eyes shiny with reflexive tears and lips slick with spit.  When he goes back to take John in his mouth again, the man knows he is going to come soon.

“Just the tip, baby.  Daddy isn’t going to last much longer.”

Sherlock complies, working his tongue around the top half of John’s cock, sucking and licking in earnest now that he has a more manageable portion to deal with.  His uninjured hand comes back to stroke the rest of John’s cock that isn’t in his mouth.  John’s head falls back against the back of his chair, eyes squeezed shut.  He can feel his orgasm building up inside of him, a dull ache from days of getting no release, from an entire evening of being teased, from hours of being aroused, ever since he first got home and saw his gorgeous little lover.

“God, Sherlock,” he gasps, fingers clenching in the dark hair.  “Baby…”

His belly is burning warmly, a tingle deep down inside.  His balls are tightening, drawing up, and Sherlock is sucking, taking him in, taking him down, stroking him and it’s perfect, perfect.

John comes with a gasp and a thrust of his hips upwards, into the warm mouth around him.  He can feel himself releasing with every twitch of his cock against Sherlock’s tongue, and he knows there is a lot.  He can feel Sherlock gag around his mouthful, having trouble keeping so much of it in. 

John looks down to see Sherlock open his mouth to spit some of it out, but John reaches down quickly to tilt the teen’s head up, stopping him.  A small dribble of come ends up slipping out of one corner of Sherlock’s plush, red lips, and John’s thumb catches it and drags it back into his mouth. 

“Swallow it, baby,” he tells Sherlock, running his thumb along Sherlock’s abused lips and wiping his come off there, letting the brunet take it back.  “Swallow it all.”

And Sherlock does, like a good little pet.  It takes him a few tries, because there is more than he is used to, and for a moment he looks at John and the man can see that he is worried that he won’t be able to do it.  But then he does and John is smiling at him so proudly, and Sherlock is blushing back at him happily, glad that he has pleased his daddy.

“That’s my kitten,” John says softly, bending to place a chaste, closed-mouth kiss to Sherlock’s lips, barely there at all.

Sherlock hums contentedly into the kiss, crawling off the floor and up John’s sticky, sated body to curl up in the man’s lap, folding himself up and settling against John’s chest.  John runs lazy hands up and down Sherlock’s back while Sherlock nuzzles at his throat and the man considers how truly, absolutely wonderful it is to have a lap full of happy, naked, regressed Sherlock Holmes. 

He sometimes still can’t believe that they have gotten here; that they have come to the point where they can say the things that they do to each other, do the things that they do, play the way that they play and John doesn’t die of embarrassment.  But that is Sherlock’s doing, he knows.  Sherlock’s understanding and Sherlock’s patience and Sherlock’s love.  He would never have been comfortable enough with his fantasies to share them with Sherlock on his own.  If it had been left up to him, the two of them would never know the joy and satisfaction of sharing this part of their relationship—of _themselves_ —with each other.

John is so lucky; sometimes he can’t believe how lucky he is.  He thinks about how much he loves the lanky, needy, perfect genius currently trying to burrow his way into John’s lap.  It is immeasurable, the fondness, the affection, the adoration that he carries around inside of him for Sherlock.  He doesn’t understand how it hasn’t drowned him yet.

As usual, Sherlock seems to know just what John is thinking.  “I’m happy, too.  That we finally accepted this part of us.”

John grins, so proud of his little genius.  “I am, too.  You did this, you know,” he says, because even if Sherlock can deduce it, some things still need to be said out loud, some things just need to be heard for oneself.  “You amazing, brilliant boy.  You absolute wonder.  You gave me this.  You opened my eyes to what we could have, Sherlock.  Daddy loves you, baby,” John tells him, giving Sherlock a kiss on the very tip of the nose, where he knows Sherlock wants John to think he hates being kissed, but John knows Sherlock secretly loves it.

Sherlock scrunches up his face but doesn’t tell John to stop, just like John knew he would.  “I know,” he replies to the man, snuggling down farther in John’s lap.  “I love you, too, Daddy.”

John sighs happily against Sherlock’s fire-warmed, naked skin.  He reaches out to pick up _Treasure Island_ , telling himself that he is only going to read Sherlock one chapter and then he will put his sleepy mouse straight to bed, no arguing.

But he knows better than to believe that he won’t give in by now.


End file.
